


clothe yourself in beauty untold

by s0dafucker



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: BDSM, Canon Compliant, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Under-negotiated Kink, Voyeurism, big dudes subbing..... thats really just my kink huh, domme camilla, imagine i wrote a bunny redemption arc before this, sub henry, the greek class has one braincell and its camillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: (a series of vignettes at the country house)
Relationships: Camilla Macaulay/Richard Papen/Henry Winter, Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran/Camilla Macaulay/Henry Winter, Francis Abernathy/Charles Macaulay, Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen, basically everybody fucks except camilla/charles, thats the big one
Comments: 4
Kudos: 91





	clothe yourself in beauty untold

**Author's Note:**

> **cw for: **  
-canon typical drug/alcohol related consent issues (nothing seriously noncon but could be considered dubcon)  
-canon typical incest-adjacent shit (charles and camilla do sex stuff around each other but never with each other)  


it’s a sunny september morning, and richard is drunk. 

(an amendment- he’s halfway there, by camilla’s estimate, and it’s closer to afternoon, at a guess. the sun is high and bright and everyone’s wearing something between pajamas and proper clothes.)

camilla’s watching him from the porch, sipping lazily at a teacup of wine. henry, in a shirt that matches her dress for color but is far too neat besides, lifts a cigarette to his lips and murmurs, ‘he’s rather sweet, don’t you think.’ 

richard’s flushed and deep in some animated conversation with charles, who is nodding heartily and agreeing in that sincere way he does. they’re both in bathrobes and trousers and when richard leans forward to make a point his falls so as to expose his chest, the tanned skin of his sternum. his smile is bright and open and he reaches for a mug of sherry and beside camilla henry drags indulgently on his cigarette. 

she hums her agreement. 

-

richard comes downstairs one morning in a monogrammed pajama shirt ( _ f.a. _ ) and camilla can’t help but grin over her coffee; the poor kid turns red and looks down at the breast pocket and mutters, ‘i forget to pack-’ before she laughs brightly and pours him a drink. 

(francis had told henry, when he and richard had taken the boat out, and henry hadn’t smiled, but it had been a close thing- his eyes gleamed, and he took on that odd kind of focus that comes with sex, for henry. the meditative quality that he always seems to have.)

‘it’s alright,’ she says, taking a swallow from the bottle before she spins on the cap. ‘don’t let bun say a damn word to you about it, either. he’s fucked henry more times than i have.’

he blinks, big dark eyes looking at her across the kitchen table. ‘really?’

-

she’s wearing one of her best sundresses, pale yellow and floaty and delicate, and henry’s sliding it up her legs with his broad, sure hands, his gaze dark and steady. 

everyone’s around, in the sprawling, easygoing way they live at the country house. francis and charles somewhere inside, bunny out on his walk, and richard-

richard’s staying, politely, on the other side of a bookshelf, where he can pretend he doesn’t hear camilla leaning back in her chair and gasping, ‘good boy, henry, god-’ 

he murmurs something against her thigh, some sardonic quip in latin, and she tugs sharply at his hair, elicits a sound that she muffles with her cunt. 

every noise carries in the library, the wet, vulgar sound of henry’s tongue and the soft shuffling of fabric that means richard’s doing something, behind the shelf, palming himself over his bathrobe or trousers or both, unbuttoning his shirt collar, desperately holding onto his composure as henry groans into camilla, her nails raking up the nape of his neck. 

he’s doing lovely, well-trained as he is, and she’s getting close when the ancient doors swing open grandly and bunny strolls in looking for trouble. (he’s got that bright look in his eye, like he’ll take sex or a fight with equal enthusiasm.)

several things happen at once- 

bun grins like he’s heard a good dirty joke, broad and sharp, his face flushed,

richard sucks in a breath and goes quite still, by the sound of it,

and henry pulls back from camilla to call, ‘don’t let in a draft, bun.’ 

he lets the door fall shut behind him, and sinks onto the piano bench, eyes locked with camilla’s. she matches him, challenging. her fingers grip tighter at henry’s hair, just to make him stifle a cry. so bunny can hear. 

‘was looking for richard,’ he says, his gaze determinedly not slipping from hers. (she thought he was playing at dominance when he walked in, but now she thinks it might be his misplaced modesty- for all they’ve done he’s still like a guilty kid with his first playboy mag.) 

‘well,’ she says, ‘i’m sure he’s around.’ 

bun cocks an eyebrow- he is rather clever with those sorts of things- and she tilts her head. the grin slips up a notch.

‘don’t suppose i can kill time with you,’ he says, and she could laugh; she wants to, high and stupid with the fun of it all. 

(this is dumb; it’s dumb and horny and it’s sexual harrassment, if richard wanted to go to someone, would only make the greek class look like more of a shitty cult-) (-but if richard didn’t want to be here, he could’ve cleared his throat and left ages ago.)

it’s a grand old mind game. a chess match with flesh and booze. no one can satisfy any of them but each other- camilla and henry admit it the most readily. no one is on their level in any sense of the phrase. 

bunny gets his cock out, lazily, and camilla plays it up a little, rocking her hips up into henry’s mouth and messing up her hair with her free hand. bun likes her a little messy and girlish, softer to the touch. 

‘hey,’ she murmurs to henry. she presses the heel of her hand to his forehead, grabs a handful of his hair and pulls him back. he looks up at her with his serious gaze, clear and soothed. ‘suck bun off, yeah?’ 

he nods, and he- oh, camilla grins- he crawls to bunny, gets dust on his perfectly pressed trousers, and camilla lifts her leg up on the arm of the chair, pulls the bodice of her dress aside to grab clumsily at her breast. 

bunny knits his fingers loosely into henry’s hair, not tugging, but holding him there; henry takes his cock in his mouth and bun sighs indulgently. he props his elbow up on the piano keys, ignoring their soft, dissonant chime, and watches henry work. 

‘god, yeah, that’s- that’s good, old man, just like that.’ 

camilla thinks he’s lovely like this, vulnerable and subdued.  she'd like to get him on his knees someday, red-faced and quiet under one of her long skirts, her legs hooked over his shoulders and the back of his neck. that girl marion had been far too sweet with him freshman year, had made him too sure of himself. (henry doesn't think anyone could put bunny in his place properly, but camilla disagrees- she argued once over a chess game in his apartment that a woman might be just what bun needs to finally shut up. the humiliation would get to him. he'd see it as the most shameful thing he could be aroused by, the idea of a girl half his size keeping him under her thumb.)

henry lets himself go a little slack, limp under bunny’s grip, and bun reads the room and starts to fuck his face, his breath labored and his eyes screwed up behind his glasses, muttering, ‘oh  _ shit,  _ henry,’ in a way that makes camilla’s heart twist with fierce pride and her cunt throb beneath her fingers. it’s addicting to watch- bunny’s handsome all-american face twisting with desperation and henry’s towering stance reduced to a mouth for bun to stick his cock in, all on camilla’s orders. they’d stop if she said a word. she’s drunk on it. 

(they were seducing richard, once upon a time; she knows henry would rather they were all a bit louder, a bit more focused, but there’s no harm letting it all play out as it is. she’s glad bun walked in. he might’ve made it a bit clearer to dear sweet richard what the house rules are.)

she’s watching bunny and at some point he must realize she’s more concerned with his face than his dick, and it makes him flush-

he looks over with his hair sweat-damp and his eyes pleading and she rubs her clit just right, breathing in the heady feeling of having them at her mercy- 

it’s a lazy orgasm, the morning sex that comes without a sense of urgency. the luxurious sense of eternal bliss, the easy ebb and flow of arousal. live for _ ever.  _

bun’s fist tightens, she can see his knuckles go white, and then his hips buck forward, he cries out and cuts it off, yanks henry closer and pushes him away.

he leans back to catch his breath, the piano plunking indignantly at him, and grins down at henry. 

‘you gonna swallow, winter?’

camilla snickers. 

there’s a beat where it isn’t quite over- there’s a faint rustle from behind the bookshelves- and then henry’s standing, brusque and businesslike, dragging his sleeve over his mouth. adjusting his glasses. camilla straightens out her dress and bunny closes his robe and camilla smiles sweetly at henry when he begs with his eyes.

‘c’mere,’ she says, and she makes a show of beckoning for him. ‘you can wait, can’t you?’ she palms his cock through his pants, taking a wicked pleasure in the way he fights to remain standing. 

‘it’ll only be for the night.’ bunny’s watching. intrigued, she guesses, but most definitely nervous, too; he’s never been punished like this before, and god knows he’s done more to deserve it. (she shouldn’t do this in front of bun, she knows; he’ll find some way to tease henry about it that won’t mean anything to anyone but him.) (and richard, if he’s listening.)

henry nods. he’s flushed pink and still hard- she grabs his dick and he gasps- and he surrenders, just like that. 

camilla imagines she’d have to appeal to bunny’s masculinity to get him to agree to chastity in any form- have to challenge him a bit, goad him into it. richard, she thinks, would do anything she and henry asked. (especially if she was nice about it, promised saccharine-sweet that she’d let him come tomorrow, if he’d only be good for her.) 

‘well,’ bunny says, standing, ‘wanna go see what the others are up to?’

-

camilla ends up on the lawn with richard on an almost-october evening, when there’s a smoky chill to the air and she’s wearing one of charles’s jackets, having a cigarette she stole from francis. the leaves are turning- soon it’ll be too cold to sit like this, in a dress shirt with nothing underneath, straight-leg trousers in cream-peach-tan. the sun is warm, though, and it casts richard in gold, his hair a shining chestnut. (he’s got very greek coloring, and camilla thinks it might be part of henry’s attraction to him; tanned olive skin, hair and eyes a deep honeyed brown.)

she feels an odd sort of kinship with him, her and charles both- the foreigners unused to the cold, her with southern summers in her bones and richard with a lingering californian tan, the sort of thing you gained and forgot about until you moved somewhere where it’s something to be coveted. richard has slipped rather seamlessly into the pallid dreariness that henry and francis hold so dear, but camilla thinks he’d look dreamlike in something white. like an old god. like an angel. 

she wants to kiss him right below the straight line of his jaw. she wants to bite into his jugular just to hear him choke. she wants to feel him shiver. she offers a drag on her cigarette and he accepts. 

-

‘francis!’ she calls, rapping at the door. ‘francis, it’s camilla-’ 

(there’s an oil lamp burning low on the windowsill, and francis’s eyes gleam green-gold, his hair blazing.) 

maybe it’s because she’s drunk or because she’s restless or because francis beat her at poker earlier and she’s spoiling for a fight- she bullies her way inside, grinning sharp-toothed and mean. ‘darling boy,’ she says, tucking his hair behind his ears, ‘can i have a cigarette?’ 

‘i’ve got pot,’ he says, smiling, all of him a little loose and messy; it’s a nice look for him, and she kisses his cheek and says, ‘alright, then.’

the joint is burning in the ashtray and she has three hits before francis takes it, giggling, murmuring that she’s got to slow down. he’s open and relaxed and she eats that shit up, winding into his arms and nestling into his neck to smell the combination of weed-booze-fall-air, the dark duskiness of woodsmoke that clings to them all. she doesn’t quite kiss him and she doesn’t quite not. 

‘richard’s lovely,’ he says sometime later, as she’s twisting the curls at the nape of his neck. she can’t remember if she asked him to tell her or he had just begun to, his voice soft and melodic. ‘you should hear him.’ 

his hand comes up to stroke her hair, his long fingers warm and grounding. she pulls on his fluffy curls, resisting the thing in her that wants to bite him. (she needs to  _ chill out,  _ she’s gotta fucking chill, she’s coiled so tight and francis is so sweet and gentle. she shifts her weight in his lap, sighs into his neck.) 

‘god, i wanna…’ she twists his hair between her fingers. she tugs. 

-

she makes henry kneel at the couch one night, when they’re all lazing around with after-dinner cocktails. (she isn’t thinking about it, really, but there’s that sparkling break-me look in henry’s eye and she’s in a playful sort of restless mood, so she takes a hold of his chin while someone’s talking, makes him face her, and murmurs, ‘on the floor.’ he flushes red, and she searches his face for any real reservations- but he nods, the smallest dip of his chin, and kneels. she reaches into his hair, as a small reward. strokes her nails over his scalp and watches the tension leave his shoulders.)

charles looks first- his gaze wanders indulgently from henry to camilla, grinning. he lifts his eyebrows at camilla, questioning, and before she can answer silently, he asks, his voice low, ‘you got room over there?’ 

so that’s how he’s playing it. camilla gets what he’s going for in a second, tugging gently at henry’s hair to ask  _ this okay? you want it like this?  _ (he moves with her touch. obedient. pliable.  _ yes. _ )

charles is being louder than he needs to be to draw somebody’s gaze- she thinks it’s francis’s, he’s always messing with francis, but he’s drawing richard in too. not that henry’s picky. henry just wants to be looked at. (he won’t ever admit it to anyone else, his one indiscretion to the people he holds dear, but to camilla- he’d tell her anything. he’s told her everything, as it is. told her about his insecurities and the things that turn him on and the vast expanse where they overlap. (she’s the same, in that way; gets an odd sort of release from playing out the fantasy people whisper behind her back, that she’s only in the greek class because all the boys fall at her feet. gets a thrill from turning all the stupid shit bunny used to say on its head.  _ you let him call me a slut again,  _ she said to henry once, with his hands tied behind his back and his sweet, even voice broken from pleading,  _ and you won’t cum for a week.  _

_ who’s the slut now? _ she’d asked, and the look in his eyes when he answered, in the smallest whisper - she could’ve slapped him, for how cute it was. how pathetic. as if he could do anything to rein in bun, back then.))

charles settles into henry’s vacant seat, smiling bright and rakish, his hair askew, and reaches down to stroke the back of henry’s neck. camilla pulls a little. now henry tries to stay still, because he gets it too, the angle.  _ be good, because everyone’s looking.  _ richard’s looking, which is what camilla can only imagine to be a fresh and stinging humiliation, this handsome underclassman who’s been trying to impress. 

bunny went to bed an hour ago, complaining about his asthma or something, the usual shit, a muscle ache or all the other woes of life as edmund corcoran, and camilla almost misses him. she doesn’t have anyone to bounce off of but charles, and though they’ve got their style down- hard/soft, give/take- bun’s always good for audience participation. 

richard’s still on about something, flushed to his chest, telling some old party story that involves coke and a girl who was trying too hard to care about california, something pedestrian that francis and charles always like to hear about; and he’s darting glances at henry every few seconds until charles says, ‘if you wanna touch, you can ask nicely and we’ll let you.’

he stammers to a halt, and francis, in the chair next to him, says, ‘don’t scare the kid like that,’ snickering into his drink. ‘you’ll kill him.’

camilla yanks henry’s hair, hard, and charles rests his palm on the back of his head, keeps him still, and it makes him whine. richard wets his lips. 

he's staring, openly now that he's been caught- camilla chalks it up to the booze rather than the arrangement itself. richard's staring and camilla reaches down the collar of henry's shirt to dig her nails in, scratch up the delicate skin. she'll make richard kiss it better later. 

charles is tracing the shell of henry's ear absently; camilla doesn't have to look to know he's making eyes at francis. his focus has shifted, smooth and easy, and he presses a kiss to camilla's cheek before standing and beckoning richard over to take his place. 'she won't bite,' he says, 'unless you ask,' and sinks into francis's armchair.

richard has this lovely dazed look about him, like he's stumbled into a dream, and camilla twines her arms around his neck when he sits down beside her. 'would you like me to?' she murmurs against his jaw. 'bite, i mean.'

'please,' he says, and she laughs, delighted. there's a fever-bright tint to his skin. 

'so polite.' she kisses, open-mouthed, licking at his pulse. 

(she  _ does  _ bite, since he asked so nicely- and oh, he gasps, the softest warmest sound of surprised pleasure. she runs her teeth down his throat and he shakes.)

one of them reaches for henry, in the silken-slow haze of kissing, and camilla hears him whine and decides she’ll be nice to him, asks him sweetly if he’d like to go upstairs to their room; she takes richard’s hand in hers and says, softly, ‘you don’t have to come with. if you don’t want to,’ because she doesn’t know how they do it in california, doesn’t know if this crosses a line, but he smiles, big and sheepish-excited, and says, ‘i know.’ and he stands when she does.

camilla's watching- she likes it better that way, honestly, because henry's got more of an eye for detail and arrangements, is better at acquiescing to whatever constraints he's under; camilla just likes to get off and she likes to be in charge and sitting back and barking orders suits her fine. 

henry's got one broad hand on the small of richard's back, over his finely pressed shirt, and camilla watches them kiss, slow and wine-bitter, their mouths red and wet and boyish. there's a thin layer of stubble on richard's jaw. 

his hand reaches into henry's hair, gentle, his thumb grazing over the scar in a tender gesture that she realizes neither of them might've noticed. richard moves with such care, unconscious or not-

it's heart-breaking, really. earth-shattering. he gets a handful of henry's hair and tugs and she watches with new interest.  _ that's _ a development.

henry gasps into his mouth- she can't tell if it's for show. with her, it might've been. (she likes to hear him and he knows it.)

the hand on richard’s shirt has tightened, just slightly, the first shaking sign that henry’s in over his head. his knuckles are tensing towards white. camilla wants to open up his head and sift through it. 

she’s watching, for now; wandering hands slipping beneath her shirt- loose, olive, smells faintly like francis’s dusky aftershave- or the waistband of her pajamas, not quite touching and not quite not. savoring. keeping her attention on the main course. 

the tipping point of act one, the inciting incident, per-se _ ,  _ comes when richard starts to get bold, drunk and handsy, tilting his head with his eyes an inch away from henry's so he can watch him fall apart- camilla likes it. she has directions, blocking, a little fight choreo, but  _ thank you five _ ; she can wait. she's patient and seasoned and content to keep her eyes on richard's broad hands- lovely surgeon's hands, gentle and sure, feeling henry up, watching for what makes him gasp and twist and whimper. (what's henry going through, she wants to know; she always does, when he's being fucked. getting played with and turned inside out and laying beneath her with his shirt half-on and his hair in his eyes- she wants to pour out a stiff drink and dip her hands into the mess of him, feel it with her own heart.  _ what're you thinking,  _ she asked him once, tucking his hair behind his ears and trying, lazily, to make him cum again;  _ nothing at all,  _ he'd replied, with a sort of quiet, exhausted relief.) 

richard mouths at his throat, pulls his hair back to expose the neat, broad curve of his neck, smiles when henry gasps. his teeth are imperfect, crooked, spit-shining when he lifts henry's glasses off with a delicate hand and hears him make a disappointed sound back in his throat. (it's a helpless thing. weak and needing. camilla loves it.) 

she takes off her pants and unfolds herself from the chair and richard moves over to make room for her, grinning with eyes warm and dark- he hands henry’s glasses over and she folds them neatly on the bedside table. there’s a trembling sort of anticipation in henry’s straight posture. 

camilla reaches into his hair, pushes it, sweat-damp, back from his forehead, and murmurs, ‘hold still,’ with her fingers on the nape of his neck. ‘and keep your eyes shut.’

he nods. camilla starts at the buttons of his shirt and richard kisses her neck as she goes; she hums appreciatively and tilts her neck to give him a better angle. she pinches henry’s nipple, watches him squirm, and is pleasantly surprised when richard’s breath hitches next to her ear. (if she torments him a little more, chest and collarbones and touches that switch excitedly between feather-light and sharp and stinging- well, it’s for richard. henry can take it.)

she gets at henry’s cock, a while later, when richard’s still a warm weight against her back and henry’s considerably more fidgety, his hands fisted in the sheets, and richard’s mouth is hot when he and henry moan in tandem. richard’s shoved her shirt aside to bite her shoulder and his voice comes wet and quiet into the space where a bruise will be. 

‘you ever thought about him like this?’ she asks, conversationally, as henry’s brow furrows in the sweetest way on the upstroke, as he twitches in her grasp. 

richard’s tongue soothes at her skin. ‘yeah. thought about you a lot, too.’ she smiles and he lets out a small, self-conscious laugh, a warm huff of breath. his hands are on her hips.

‘i thought henry’d be more, ah-’

‘dominating?’

he whines, plaintive and embarrassed, when they talk about him, and camilla would slap him usually but she laughs at him, instead, and it works just as well. 

‘he could be, if he wanted.’ he’s wet, leaking, and she thumbs the head of his cock, makes a mess of it. ‘he does it for bun, sometimes.’

richard takes a shaking breath in. 

‘but mostly i think he just likes taking a break from being in charge.’

‘he’s gorgeous.’

henry’s chin drops to his chest, then, his face flaming and head turned away like he can block them out if he hides in his shoulder well enough. his jaw is damp with sweat, his pulse thumping hard enough to be visible. 

‘d’you wanna fuck him?’

it’s so fucking good to have them both like this- richard murmuring, ‘god, yes,’ into her skin, his breath hot and voice low; henry swallowing around a whine, his jaw tight with the effort. camilla aches.

they have to reposition to get any real fucking done-

camilla offers henry his glasses and he smiles, sheepish, and declines; she says, quietly, ‘i could use your face, then,’ and he ducks his head in that way that means she’s figured out exactly what he wants.

‘ _ christ, _ ’ richard breathes, and camilla laughs. ‘you guys are something else.’ 

henry’s smile is a little more in line with his usual self, now, and his unfocused eyes are gazing in richard’s direction; ‘sex works best with clear communication,’ he says, somewhere between dry-joking and earnest-accidentally-condescending; camilla rolls her eyes. 

she’s going to get to henry, push him around where she wants him, but richard is looking at her like she’s the most beautiful-terrifying thing he’s ever seen, and he’s cupping her cheek so reverently, and he kisses like-

like he’s done it a  _ lot,  _ and like he’s head over heels, sweet and gentle, sighing against her and letting her bite him-

and when he starts to fumble with her shirt, who’s she to stop him. he kisses down to the hollow of her throat and opens her shirt and he looks so  _ perfect,  _ when he gets his mouth on her breasts, kissing and sucking and looking like he was born to do it. he’s blissed out, one hand on the small of her back, and she pushes his hair back from his forehead and says, breathless, ‘good boy.’

(and that makes him tremble, interestingly; she can feel it everywhere, in her chest and her hand and up her back, richard shuddering inside her skin.)

she scratches his scalp, pulling just-barely, to gauge if he’d like that sort of thing- he makes a sound she takes as appreciative, and so she grips a little tighter and pulls him off her. 

she savors the dazed look on his face- stupid in a cute way, horny-dumb and eager to please- and says, ‘let’s not be too mean to henry. not tonight.’

he laughs- ‘shit, you’re right.’ (henry, to his credit, has been quiet and obedient, waiting patiently for them to finish. he did whine, when he heard the implication resting under  _ not tonight,  _ but camilla can’t blame him.) ‘dunno how you guys do this.’

henry murmurs something in greek- she recognizes the low, melodic feeling but not the words, and richard hears it well enough to hum, amused. 

richard gets up to undress while henry’s laying down, and camilla takes the opportunity to check in with him; she straddles his waist and kisses him, softly, murmurs, ‘you want him to fuck you?’

‘yes, please,’ he says, and richard mutters, ‘fuck,’ empathetically from the foot of the bed. there’s a fumbling with fabric and then the bed dips behind camilla and richard reaches for henry’s dick, makes him cry out and squirm beneath her. he reaches up to cover his face and she catches his wrists, pins them up beside his head.

‘there’s lube in the armoire-’ the bed creaks and the drawer slides open and camilla leans down to kiss henry again, grinding against him. she presses a few to his jaw and then- the sound of bedsprings- she sits up so she can watch properly when richard fingers him.

‘you ever done this before?’ 

‘uh. sort of.’ the cap pops open. ‘francis usually, um-’ she can tell just by his voice that his ears have gone red the way they do- ‘does it for me.’ 

she bites back the urge to make fun of him like she would bun or henry. she’s worried it’d do more to make him insecure than horny- and those can work for each other, sometimes, but she’d rather not risk it. 

‘hey,’ she says to henry, her hair falling in his face, ‘you think you can get me off while he’s fucking you?’ because she’s impatient and likes to see him struggle; he nods in that helpless way that makes her feel like she’s tied him to the goddamn railroad tracks. there’s punishment inherent to her words, and he knows it. 

(as usual, henry is excellent with his tongue, and it’s very fun to catch richard’s eye in this position- he grins, a little slack-jawed and over-exposed, and then curls his fingers up to touch henry just right and make him moan into camilla’s cunt.)

when richard finally fucks into him, camilla’s watching, her eyes on his face as his eyes close, his mouth drops open. ‘holy  _ shit, _ ’ he says, and camilla grinds against henry’s mouth, shuts her eyes too because richard’s gorgeous and desperate and she wants to last just a little longer. 

and it’s quiet, sex-quiet, no one talking but everyone breathing fast and heavy and richard’s little grunts of effort and camilla’s own noises, hot in the empty air, henry’s muffled whines and the slap of skin on skin. she digs her nails into henry’s shoulder- it’s mean, that, probably too mean, but she’s too far gone to care, rocking her hips down and grabbing at him and keeping up a vicious patter of  _ just like that don’t you dare stop  _ and watching richard fuck him, panting and whining and he says  _ can i come in him  _ and it makes her fall apart, the question being for  _ her-  _

she nods, gasps out, ‘yeah-’ and henry’s upper arm is going to be bruised, with how hard she grabs it. 

(bless him, his well-trained mouth keeps working until she clambers off, his eyes screwed up tight in focus. he comes with a shout, and richard thrusts into him once, twice, makes him twist and writhe in the over-sensitive way he likes-)

‘god,’ richard says, later, still naked and spent and staring at the ceiling. camilla traces the spot on his throat where she bit him; it’s red and angry and it’ll most definitely make bunny jealous.

henry chuckles. (he hasn’t moved, and she doesn’t blame him; her and richard are curled up on his chest, warm and tired.)

camilla traces up the nape of richard's neck, to the short hair, and he closes his eyes and shivers. 

‘you’re cute,’ she says, and his ears flush pink, and she giggles. he’s sweet and cute and lovely and she would tell him but she’s so goddamn tired and it’s so much easier to just nestle into henry and shut her eyes and decide she’ll be nice in the morning.

-

morning comes and goes and then it's monday- 

so there isn't time for anyone to ask, beyond bunny's pouting scowl over greek work and drinks at the coffee table, muttering something under his breath about the  _ one time he goes to bed early  _ and casting dark looks at richard's bruised throat, francis's pale thighs marked purple-blue when his boxers ride up. 

(something he says is a little loud- francis is trying to do the reading for all of them- they're drinking- camilla lifts her mug to her lips and by the time she's had a sip francis is using his entire body weight to pin bun against the arm of the couch and tickle him. they never do get the homework done.)

julian casts them the same cursory glances he always does (camilla thinks he’s secretly rather fond of the idea they all sleep together; adds some intrigue and drama), and richard slips snugly into the time-weathered spot carved in for him. she finds him at a party that weekend and is delighted to her core when he lights up at the sight of her and francis. he's smoking pot out of an old beer can and complains so enthusiastically about the cold that francis wraps him up in his scarf and puts him in the backseat to sleep on henry's shoulder. 

he wakes when they arrive, eyes heavy and voice slurred, and he only stumbles once before henry lifts him up bridal-style and steps carefully over the frosty grass.

they walk up the stairs and henry hesitates on the landing, looking down at the warm body in his arms and weighing richard's privacy against the desire written all over his face to sleep next to him; eventually his gentlemanly nature wins, and he lays richard gently in the bedroom beside his and camilla's.

it's nearly dawn when she sees richard again- she woke up early, cold and sleep-sluggish, and wandered to the bathroom to smoke out the window. she's got a blanket draped over her shoulders and one cold hand with a loose hold on a lucky strike when she hears his sock-cushioned footsteps on the tile. too soft to be bun or henry, missing the catlike grace of francis. (she would've known if it was charles. she knows the idiosyncrasies of him blind and deaf, the slightly uneven tempo of his walk.)

'good morning,' he says, sheepish and sardonic, a tired rasp underneath the words. 

she hums. something feels very melancholy and yet comfortable about being with him in this way, something quiet and heavy. the sun hasn't begun to rise yet, but the sky is purpling at the tree line, faint and lavender. 

'we live submerged at the bottom of an ocean filled with air,' she murmurs.

torricelli wrote it once- she doesn't know what makes her think of it now, only that it holds in it an odd flavor of romanticism. she read it when she was a child and thought it terribly lovely. 

richard kisses the crown of her head and she treasures the silence. 

they walk downstairs leaning on each other's shoulders and henry appears at the kitchen table before sunrise; the others will be along soon, and they'll all have breakfast. the days are so fleeting and so long and henry passes her his cigarette without looking up from his book. says that he loves her without words. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> me when i first read the secret history: damn i bet these kids have intimacy issues... being mostly separated from other kids their age at a formative time in their lives and having superiority complexes but also deep insecurities.....  
me now: what if they werent assholes and they fucked 
> 
> this ended up having more feelings in it than i planned!! but isnt that always the way


End file.
